Room Eight
by roane
Summary: Back in London after years of war, John Watson runs into someone from his past he never expected to see again. After fifteen years, neither of them is who they once were, but more surprising to John is what hasn't changed.


**AN:** Written for the Sherlock Remix challenge on LJ for musamihi. Thanks to thisprettywren as always for pointing me in the right direction, and to provocatrixxx for making sure I didn't sound too American. :)

* * *

**July 1995**

It's his last night of freedom-well, as much as being stuck in Brighton hell could be called freedom-and John Watson is determined to spend the night in a stranger's bed. He's not particular as to whether the bed belongs to a man or a woman, as long as they're interesting. That in and of itself feels a little like freedom, to be able to choose a lover as he pleases without worrying about repercussions. He's reporting for duty tomorrow, deploying a few days after that, what's the worst that could happen?

Brighton hasn't felt like home for ages now. He told his mum and dad he was out with friends, but in truth, his friends managed to get out years before. So when he walks into the inn, he's free to go wherever he wants to go.

He almost stops in his tracks when he sees the man sitting by himself at the bar. He's roughly John's age, maybe a little older, and he's possibly the most beautiful man John has ever seen. Dark hair and dark eyes-John's heard people described as having an angel's face before, but until now he thought it was an exaggeration. Then the man looks up at John and smiles, and anything angelic is gone. It's the Devil's own smile, and John decides right then and there he wants to end the night in that man's bed.

John walks over and sits down next to him like he's done this a million times. "Hello." He holds out his hand before he can lose his nerve. "I'm shipping out to Bosnia on Wednesday."

The man looks surprised, but takes John's hand, although it's clammy from his glass. "Yeah? Shit."

That's not the reaction John was hoping for. "No, it's great. I've been waiting to get the hell out of here. I'm tired of it, you know? I can't wait."

"So you came out here to-what? Celebrate?" There's something about the way he says 'celebrate' that gives John a bit of hope; there's just enough innuendo there to keep him talking.

"Well-yes and no. My parents live in town and I stopped in to say a proper goodbye." John lies without hesitation. There is no earthly way he's going to tell this beautiful man that he still lives at home. "They've never been all that keen on the whole Army thing. So I did a couple days with them, just to show them-you know, spirits are high and all that."

"Did it work?"

"Doubt it." They're less than thrilled that their son and his shiny-new medical degree are going off to shoot at foreigners, and John can't explain why he has to. He tries to will himself to shut up and instead forces a bright smile. "But they'll see, won't they? What brings you here?"

"Just business," the man replies. "It's, ah-"

"It's a nice place to come for business," John says, trying to swallow his disappointment. He misread that initial smile. He's sure he's being rude, but he can't stop staring. If someone had asked John what his ideal one-night stand might be, he could have conjured up the image of the man sitting next to him. "Lucky you."

"Yeah. Lucky me."

John is looking into the depths of his drink, trying to think of what to say next, when the man unmistakably drags the sole of his foot across John's ankle. He couldn't fight back the grin if he tried, and glances over to see it returned, brilliantly. From then on, John can't seem to shut up. Maybe the nerves are getting the better of him, since this might _actually happen_.

He doesn't ask the man anything about himself, and the man doesn't seem to mind. John isn't blind or stupid. He doesn't miss the way the man keeps rubbing his thumb at the base of his left ring finger. There's no visible mark, but clearly he's accustomed to wearing a ring there, and it hasn't been off for very long. John supposes he should care whether the man is cheating or just recently divorced, but he tells himself he doesn't-it's not like they're ever going to see each other again after tonight.

"I think I'd better call it quits," the man says, and John thinks he's getting the brush off, especially when the man puts down his glass and says, "About time to turn in."

John tries to keep a smile on his face. "Oh-yes. Business, right. Well, it was, um-"

"Don't have far to go, thankfully." The man taps his wallet against the bar to get the barman's attention. "Number eight's just up the stairs and a left."

Oh. _Oh._ There's no mistaking that. John watches him climb the stairs, unabashedly eyeing his arse in those tight jeans. He swallows a gulp from his glass before looking away, then drains the glass. It's what, his third pint? He's just drunk enough to feel like he can take on the world, or at the very least, one very attractive stranger.

He waits for what feels like hours (but is probably no more than fifteen minutes), then signals the barman and pays. Then, no coward he, John slides off the barstool and heads for the stairs, feeling as if every single person in the bar is staring at him and he's wearing a sign that says "I'm about to go shag a total stranger."

The door to number eight flies open almost as soon as John's knuckles touch the wood, which gives a little boost to John's ego.

There's very little talk after that. They kiss with matching desperation; after a shockingly short amount of time the man backs John up against the door and goes to his knees. It's the hottest thing John could have imagined, a beautiful man kneeling before him and tugging at his trousers as if his life depends on taking John's cock into his mouth _right this minute_.

They wind up on the bed after John comes hard into the man's mouth (and oh _Christ_ the wicked smile he gave John as he swallowed), and John recovers enough to take over, pulling away the man's clothing to reveal a body that's smooth and stunning, still a little gangly from youth. He takes his own turn to kneel, bowing over that body like a prostrated worshipper. He's sucked cock before, of course, but this is the first time he can remember being truly eager to impress.

Not that he gets a chance. Once the man is hard again, he murmurs and coaxes John to turn over, and this John hasn't done before, except with his own fingers. He forgets any nervousness when the man presses his face against the crack of John's arse, and damn near forgets his own name when he starts to kiss and lick and tease his way inward. It isn't long before he's writhing and ready for anything.

The man peppers kisses over John's back and shoulders while he's fucking him, and John is barely aware of the words coming out of his own mouth..

After, they curl up for far too short a time, idly kissing each other, trailing fingers over each other's overheated skin. John has dangerous notions of asking the man his name, of wanting some way to get in touch with him again. But John's going to a war zone, and his beautiful stranger has likely got someone (man? woman?) waiting at home, so he doesn't ask.

Later, much later, when he's trying to sleep between patrols-first outside Srebrenica, years later outside of Lashkar Gah-John pulls that memory out over and over until the line between memory and fantasy is a blur.

* * *

**January 2010**

John almost hadn't recognized Greg. It wasn't that he'd changed that much, aside from his hair turning from dark to silver, it was just that John didn't expect to ever see that stranger again, much less to find him hovering over a corpse at a London crime scene. John wasn't entirely sure it _was_ him until he heard Greg laughing with one of the constables, and the laugh took John right back to that warm night in 1995.

He didn't think Greg had recognized him after fifteen years. When Sherlock had introduced John, Greg had showed no sign that he'd met John before, and John had been content to leave it at that. He isn't much of a prize these days, with his limp and his nightmares-it's better if Greg keeps the young soldier in his memory (assuming he remembered at all) separate from the scarred, bitter older man who'd returned from Kabul.

Then Greg had offered him a lift after Sherlock left him behind, and it was clear he did know who John was. It had been an awkward, almost horrible conversation, full of half-finished thoughts and unspoken words. They talked in circles around that night they'd met, without ever really talking about it at all. John had seen the wedding ring on Greg's finger, and it put paid to any hopes he might have had, however vague and flimsy.

For a week or so after, John is too caught up in his new world of chasing criminals and avoiding body parts in the fridge to think too much about Greg, too caught up in working out how to survive in such close quarters with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock is quite mad in a way that reminds John of his old platoon, in a way that makes John want to go running into burning buildings for fun.

John almost ignores the text from Greg asking him to go to the pub. But Sherlock is being particularly insufferable, and John needs a break. He tells himself over and over again that neither of them is the same man they were fifteen years ago, and that one of them is very very married. This is nothing but two mates going out for a drink.

He believes it for about the first half an hour of sitting at a table with Greg finishing their first pints. That's when he feels the slow, deliberate drag of Greg's foot against his ankle. The angle's wrong from the first time, of course. They're across from each other, not sitting side by side at the bar. John raises his eyebrows in surprise,and gets a small, sheepish smile from Greg.

"You, uh," John clears his throat, "remember that."

"All of it. Vividly." Greg's words are quiet, spoken more to the empty pint glass in front of him than to John.

"Long time since then," John says. "A lot's changed."

"A lot hasn't."

John ducks his head. The tone in Greg's voice is unmistakable. He imagines even at twenty-two he would've got the message. He drags his fingers through the remaining condensation on the outside of his glass, then glances up at Greg. "Seems there might be a few obstacles," he says, pointedly looking at Greg's left hand.

Greg laughs, and it's nothing like the bright sound John's used to. This laugh is harsh and bitter. "Sherlock hasn't told you all about that yet? Liz takes a kind of flexible view on her vows. I pretend I don't know."

John wonders if Liz is the same woman Greg was married to fifteen years ago. He can feel his face growing warm at the thought of just how thoroughly they'd broken his vows that night.

There's an uproar from across the room as someone scores a goal on the telly. It's all so normal, sitting in a pub on a Thursday night while a match is on, but absolutely nothing else is close to normal. Sherlock's at home dissecting eyeballs, and across from John sits one of the best shags of his life, hinting at wanting another go. Except now he's a coworker of sorts.

"Are you looking to get back at her?"

"It stopped being about revenge years ago," Greg says.

It's the sadness in Greg's eyes that decides John. "I'll think about it." He licks his lips and then admits the truth. "Although honestly, I've been thinking about it since I realised who you were."

Greg just smiles, then slides out to order another round.

* * *

The following Tuesday Greg texts him: **_The Iron Duke. Friday, 9PM. Room #8._**

It's the same pub, even the same room. How did he manage that? John stares at his phone for several minutes, thinking.

Finally, he sends a text back: **_Okay._**

Is he planning to knowingly commit adultery with a married man? It seems that he is. It bothers him less than he expected it would. It's not really his business-he didn't make a vow to anyone. And then there's what Greg's said about his wife. If he's honest though, it's mostly because John hasn't been able to stop thinking about Greg sucking him off against the room door, or about the way they'd kissed, both before and after.

John expects Sherlock will give him hell for leaving town for the weekend. He's not far wrong.

"You hate your parents, John. Why go spend a weekend with them?" Sherlock demands, sprawled across the couch and staring at the ceiling.

"First of all, I don't _hate_ them," John says. "We just don't always see eye to eye. They're still my family."

"But a whole weekend," Sherlock says.

"I know, but it can't be helped," John says, unfolding his paper and hiding behind it. "I'll be back on Sunday night."

Sherlock makes a disgruntled noise.

"And Sherlock," John says, "I'm keeping my mobile off, do you hear?"

He half expects Sherlock to follow him on the train, but if he does, he's well disguised. John's forgotten about him completely by the time he's walking past Brunswick Square. It's cold and damp, but not raining at least. The wind from the sea is cutting through his coat, the salt smell a constant reminder of who he used to be.

The thumping of his heart in his chest has nothing to do with the walk, and everything to do with the destination. He feels a little like he did as a kid, sneaking out on his parents, getting stories straight: John's and Jeff's parents think they're spending the night at Tom's, Tom's parents think they're spending the night at Jeff's, and god help them if somebody's parents call to check on them.

The pub hasn't changed a bit in fifteen years. The same ancient telly still hangs in one corner, for Christ's sake. John's about twenty minutes early. For all he knows, Greg is already upstairs waiting for him. "Waiting for him"-isn't that enough to send a shiver through him? For the sake of his nerves and not wanting to appear too eager, John orders a pint and tucks himself away in a corner, watching the door.

He remembers staggering into the house after that first night with Greg, still half-drunk on lager and a strange man's kisses, his arse sore, but the happiest he'd been in months. He's never told anyone what happened. It's one of the few memories he's kept entirely to himself. There's something powerful about being able to talk about it again. To be able to say, "Do you remember?" and have someone say, "Yes, I do." And maybe that, too, is one of the reasons he agreed to meet Greg here.

At 8:55, John has a moment of worry that Greg's changed his mind. What if he isn't upstairs? Won't he feel a proper fool if he knocks on the door to number eight and there's no answer? Maybe this is a mistake. He could go back to the train station, go back to London tonight, and have a perfectly ordinary weekend at home. He'd have to make up a story about a row with his folks, maybe. For a single moment, the idea of exchanging the unknown waiting upstairs in room number eight for the comfortable, familiar-if-crazy world of Baker Street has a strong pull on him.

He almost does it. He goes so far as to pull out his phone to check the train timetable. Then he thinks of warm kisses and that feeling of connection, and he pockets his phone. John tells himself he's being ridiculous, and he squares his shoulders and goes up the stairs.

The numbers on the doors have been changed from metallic stickers to polished brass, but otherwise it's all the same. John takes a deep breath, lifts his hand, and knocks on the door.

Once again, the door opens before he can even lower his hand. Greg is standing there in jeans and a t-shirt like before, barefoot, wearing a smile that John can only describe as "relieved".

"John. You made it."

"I made it," John repeats, a smile forming of its own volition. He lets Greg pull him through the door and shut it behind him. Maybe not so much has changed, after all.


End file.
